


Family Time

by RollingWings



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, Family, a thing i turned in for a literal grade for an actual college course, mentions of Canada (Matthew) Sweden (Berwald) and Sealand (Peter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RollingWings/pseuds/RollingWings
Summary: Alfred barely escapes the claws of death.i.e. He doesn't have to eat Arthur's cooking.





	Family Time

**Author's Note:**

> i really wanted to post something today, even if it was this ancient "Narrative Essay" that i wrote years ago for my college english class.
> 
> even if it was hetalia.
> 
> but hetalia has normal people names; it was easier to write them than make up names for another fandom kjdhbksj
> 
> i Do remember it brought some good ol' nostalgia though. it was fun to write this honestly.
> 
> also i got a 100% on this paper from a real college professor, so it can't be That bad right??

If there was one thing that Alfred hated more than family dinners, it was family dinners with guests. Arthur was always breathing down his neck to make sure he behaved himself when other people were present; he would always go on, and on, about how manners were very important and how they built character and blah, blah, blah, it was never worth Alfred’s time to listen beyond maybe a sentence of Arthur’s lectures. Alfred had way better things to do, like plan how he was going to cheat on Mr. Sanchez’s history test, and get a new high score on his favorite hero fighting game. He’d been looking forward to starting the new chapter he had just unlocked, but just as Alfred was about to go off into his little dream world, Arthur called for him in his scratchy, high pitched voice.

“Alfred! Where are you?” Arthur shouted, his voice dulled from the distance between him and Alfred. Alfred groaned, he knew that tone. That was Arthur’s lecture voice, and he knew that if he didn’t get up soon to meet his older brother it would soon turn into his yelling voice. Alfred really didn’t have the patience to deal with that at the moment, so with another groan he slid off the living room couch like a sack of potatoes and slunk into the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, Alfred was met with his number one reason for hating family dinner. Arthur’s cooking was the absolute worst. Now, Alfred was extremely grateful for his brother, most of the time at least. He was the one who took him and Matthew in when their parents went off on some Las Vegas trip and never came back. Alfred was able to sympathize with his older brother now that he had aged himself and he had come to realize that raising a pair of fifteen-year-old twins fresh out of university was most likely not what Arthur had in mind when he had finally earned his bachelor’s degree. 

However, if there was anything that could waver Alfred’s lingering gratefulness and loyalty: it was Arthur’s temper and his horrid kitchen skills.

The air was thick and acidic with heat and the smell of cabbage and onions, burning Alfred’s eyes and throat the second he stepped foot onto the tile floor of the kitchen. The nearby counter was piled high with dirty dishes and what Alfred hoped were the failed attempts of tonight’s dinner. With a grimace, Alfred realized he couldn’t tell what was what on the different plates of china, everything was charred to a pitch black, dusty coal.

“Please tell me we’re going to order takeout.” Alfred pleaded as he gathered his courage to poke at one of the lumps of blackened food. Alfred prayed that Arthur would say yes, because he was pretty sure someone would crack a tooth trying to bite into whatever his brother created.

Alfred’s hopes soared when he heard Arthur sigh instead of his usual disapproving grunt and took a hesitant step closer to the stove where his brother was bent over a steaming pot. Alfred’s nose wrinkled as he approached the source of the overpowering smell and sticky humidity, but stood his ground next to his brother.

“We might have to.” Arthur lamented as he lifted his ladle to reveal the limp, soggy, cabbage leaves in the pot. The action made a new burst of steam billow from the pot and settle throughout the kitchen, forcing Alfred to grab the hem of his shirt to bury his nose in the cloth and turn away from the stove to avoid the fresh odor of B.O. and dirty laundry. Arthur clicked his tongue and gave an annoyed glance Alfred’s way.

“Stop being such a baby, it doesn’t smell that bad.” Arthur tsked, dropping the ladle back into the pot and reaching around the steaming metal to turn off the stove top with a quick turn of the dial. Alfred gaped at Arthur, although he was sure Arthur couldn’t see it due to his shirt still bunched around his mouth and nose.

“Are you kidding me?” Alfred gawked, “It smells worse than the boys’ football locker room after a game in here!”

Arthur huffed and crossed his arms as he frowned at Alfred, “This is exactly why I called you here, Alfred, you have no tact at all.” Arthur nagged.

Alfred groaned, burying himself further into his shirt in attempt to hide from Arthur’s ranting. He knew that this talk was inevitable, but that didn’t mean he was anymore prepared for it than usual.

“I know, I know, I’m a pig and a slob,” Alfred interrupted, making Arthur glare, “But before you tell me what I already know, can you please, please, tell me if we’re going to order takeout?” Alfred begged.

Arthur threw his hands into the air, “Yes, Alfred, we’re getting takeout.” Arthur finally conceded, impatient with Alfred’s childishness.

Alfred finally let go of his shirt to throw his fists into the air in victory and gave a clear, loud whoop of joy. Arthur merely rolled his eyes and rolled up his sleeves to begin cleaning the kitchen.

“Now, go take a shower and put some decent clothes on,” Arthur ordered as he chipped away at a plate of burnt on food with a warped spatula, “Berwald is coming over with Peter soon.”

Alfred’s victory dance cut off at the announcement, “Not Peter!” he shouted. Arthur groaned and Alfred watched him deflate from annoyance and impatience before turning to him to push the plate and spatula into Alfred’s arms and stomping out of the kitchen.

“Clean the kitchen, I’m going to Feliciano’s to buy some pizza,” Arthur shouted behind him towards Alfred, who followed him out of the kitchen and into the hallway, plate and spatula still in hand, “Matthew should be back soon from hockey, he can help you clean.” Arthur continued as he grabbed his blue peacoat hanging next to the doorway and stuffed his wallet and keys from the side-table into his pockets roughly.

“But-“, Alfred started.

“I’m not very fond of Peter either, you twit,” Arthur interrupted, “but Berwald wants to check in on us, he’s just bringing Peter along because Tino can’t babysit today.” Arthur explained as he patted himself down to double check that he had everything he needed.

Alfred gave a resigned sigh. Berwald, their half deaf uncle, was a kind man, although a bit terrifying if one didn’t know him well enough. When he had learned that his brother had abandoned his family, leaving their two dependent children alone to look after themselves, he had nearly gone ballistic in his own silent, awkward way. Alfred and Matthew had nearly peed themselves on their third night of fending for themselves when their uncle had burst into their room in the middle of the night without saying a single word. Alfred remembers Berwald grabbing Matthew by the shoulders and shaking him back and forth after nearly kicking down their bedroom door, and Matthew jolting awake and screeching in a frenzied panic. Alfred had had to pry his uncle off of his twin before their neighbors woke to phone the police. However, after a quick explanation that Arthur was driving over to settle things, and that they themselves were physically well, Berwald nodded and had apologized to Matthew for waking him so roughly. He had just been really worried and hadn’t thought through how he was going to get answers. Matthew had given him a shaky reassurance before suggesting that he sleep in their parent’s room if he wanted to stay and feel at ease.

The next morning, when Berwald had left, only when Arthur had arrived, Alfred took the opportunity to move the hidden house key outside into a different spot. Arthur had asked why, but Alfred had just walked past him into the house to pat Matthew on the shoulder. Yes, their uncle was a kind man, but Alfred guessed he’d have to take back his earlier statement. Uncle Berwald was terrifying no matter how well you knew him.

His son, on the other hand, was on a different level of terrifying. Peter was only three years younger than Alfred and Matthew, but if Alfred was perfectly honest, Peter acted like he was a three-year-old child instead of the teenager he actually was. He was hyperactive, loud, and extremely naïve. He constantly asked questions for the simplest of things, and when he was ignored, he’d just repeat his question repeatedly with increasing volume until he became too annoying to ignore. Arthur probably got the worst of it, the poor sucker, but Peter was a single child and had always wanted an older brother. Arthur was just unlucky enough to be assigned as said older brother.

Speaking of Arthur, Alfred flinched when his brother snapped him out of his recollecting with a rough poke to the forehead, making Alfred yelp and snap back to the present.

“Were you even paying attention to what I was saying?” Arthur asked, disgruntled.

“Uh,” Alfred answered intelligently.

Arthur merely rolled his eyes, “Have Matthew set the table,” he repeated as he stepped into his scuffed, brown boots, “I’ll be back soon, and remember to take a shower,” Arthur reminded as he stepped out of the house and out into the grey, chilly winter afternoon air.

“I don’t stink that bad!” Alfred called after him, just as Arthur closed the front door.  
Alfred frowned before lifting an arm and giving an experimental sniff at his underarm. He recoiled instantly, and stumbled a step backwards from his own musty scent.

“Okay,” Alfred conceded, “I do stink that bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> if my professor somehow sees this: I'm sorry for turning in Hetalia: Axis Powers Fanfiction for my final's essay.


End file.
